Milestones
by merduff
Summary: Half the fun is in the journey. And the rest is who you take it with." Two ways Wilson celebrated a major birthday. Mild spoilers for "Birthmarks" in chapter two.
1. Chapter 1

On the morning of his tenth birthday, James Wilson woke up at the crack of dawn, as his granddad would say. He didn't know what else could have woken him, since his alarm clock hadn't gone off. He thought the crack of dawn must be a sound, like ice breaking or a twig snapping. Or maybe dawn slipped in through a crack in the sky, like the hallway light creeping under his door. But it was still dark outside, so maybe dawn hadn't cracked yet.

Granddad also said the early bird got the worm, but James didn't know what the big deal about that was. He didn't eat worms, and if he got up before his mother, he wouldn't get anything else to eat, unless he made cereal or toast, and that wasn't a birthday breakfast. Besides, worms lived in the earth, so they wouldn't know when dawn cracked. Sometimes his granddad said things that didn't make any sense.

It was definitely too early to get up, though. His mother had promised to make him pancakes with blueberries and whipped cream for his birthday, and she'd even said he could pour the batter on the griddle and flip the pancakes. But she wouldn't get up until the alarm clock had gone off at least three times, so he decided to stay in bed and wait. He burrowed under the covers, so he wouldn't get cold.

Then his door cracked open -- a real crack this time -- and James sat up, shading his eyes against the sudden spill of light into his room. At first, all he saw was a dark shadow in the doorway, but then the figure stepped into his room and solidified into his father, like the Wonder Twins taking back their real form.

"Up and at 'em, Jimbo," he whispered. "We've got a big day ahead of us." His father was dressed in weekend clothes, even though it was Wednesday. He never wore weekend clothes on Wednesdays, even when he was only going into the office to mark papers.

"Aren't you going to work?" James whispered back.

"Not today. I know this great kid who's having a birthday, so I thought we'd both play hooky."

James frowned. Mrs. Beltz didn't like it when kids played hooky. If she caught them, they had to stay after school every day for a week, or until they made up the time they missed. James didn't mind staying after school, especially if he could work on the gold cards in SRA without his friends noticing, but he didn't want to get a bad mark on his report card.

"Won't we get in trouble?"

His father chuckled softly. "I think it will be okay. It's good to be responsible, Jimmy, but don't miss out on life because you're too cautious. Sometimes it's all right to break the rules."

Still, James hesitated. He didn't have any tests and he was ahead in most of his classes, but he'd never deliberately skipped school before. But if his father said it was all right, maybe it wasn't really skipping. He scrambled out of bed and hurried over to the dresser, skittering over the cold floorboards. "What should I wear?" he asked. "Is it a running around kind of day or a sitting one?" It was hard to tell from his father's clothes.

"Why don't you pick something that you can sit _and_ run in?"

It wasn't really an answer, but his father liked him to figure things out for himself. James thought about it carefully and pulled out a pair of brown cords, broken down just enough for the ridges to be soft beneath his fingertips, and his favourite green sweatshirt. He could do anything in these clothes. "Is this all right?"

"Perfect," his father replied. "Get dressed and I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast. We need to fuel up before we hit the road." He tousled James's hair. "Happy birthday, kiddo."

James dressed as quickly as he could and tiptoed past Danny's room, careful not to wake him. Danny kept his door open, because he was still afraid of the dark and he didn't want to be trapped in the room when the monsters came. Sometimes, James would wake up in the middle of the night to Danny crawling into his bed and curling up next to him. He liked it that Danny felt safe with him, but he was glad Danny hadn't gotten scared last night.

His mother was in the kitchen, stirring a bowl. She was still dressed in her nightgown and slippers, but the kitchen was the first room to warm up in the mornings. She smiled when she saw James and opened her arms for a hug. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," she said. "You're just in time. I'm ready to pour the batter now."

James dragged the kitchen stool over to the counter and climbed up until he could lean over the griddle. He grabbed the bowl firmly with both hands and tilted it carefully, letting the batter pool and sizzle in perfect circles. He waited until his mother nodded and then slid the spatula underneath a pancake. It slipped off the first time he tried to flip it over, but the next time he lifted the spatula a little higher and the pancake slapped face down, spreading a halo of uncooked batter.

"You'll be a master pancake maker in no time," his mother said approvingly. "Why don't you get a glass of orange juice and sit at the table so I can serve my birthday boy his birthday breakfast." She smoothed down his hair and gave him a kiss before lifting him off the stool. "I don't know what time you and your father will get back, so we'll have your birthday dinner on Friday when your grandparents come over."

James would have liked to stay in the warm kitchen with his mother, but even as she delivered his plate, the pancakes piled high with whipped cream and blueberries, just like she promised, his father came in from the garage.

"The car's warming up," he said. "I'm ready to hit the road when you are."

"Let him eat his breakfast, Joe," his mother said, but James bolted down each bite, barely tasting the blueberries.

When he was finished, he took his plate to the sink and rinsed away the last splashes of syrup and fruit. His mother took the plate and kissed him again. "Brush your teeth and hair. I don't want you running about like a ragamuffin with bad breath."

James wrinkled his nose, but hugged her tightly and ran off to do as she said. She was still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, when he came back. "Those were the best pancakes I've ever had," he said, because he knew it would make her smile. And that made it true.

"Ten years old," she sighed. "You're growing up so fast. Soon you'll be taller than me."

"And then I can make pancakes for you in the morning." Ten years was old, he decided. A full decade; two numbers written next to each other. He stretched on his tiptoes to kiss her cheek and then dashed out the door to where his father was waiting.

"Where are we going?" he asked as he pulled the seatbelt across his lap.

"We'll see when we get there," his father replied. "Half the fun is in the journey. And the rest is who you take it with." He grinned when James looked doubtful. "What do you think about a sail up the river, maybe do a little catch and release? It's supposed to get up to 55 today, but I packed extra clothes in the trunk, just in case."

James thought that was perfect. And it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the years, Wilson had learned never to be surprised by anything House did -- except for the times when he was. He certainly wasn't surprised when House walked into his office unannounced. It would have been surprising if he'd bothered to knock. He was suspicious, however, when House just walked up to his desk without a word and dropped an envelope on his desk. Normally, House's entrances were accompanied by a soundtrack of the latest litany of idiocies he'd encountered or a demand for entertainment. Silence was unsettling.

"What is this?" Wilson asked, picking the envelope up.

"Open it," House replied, affecting indifference, which just made Wilson more nervous.

The last time he'd opened something at House's urging, Wilson had ended up with a face full of powdered sugar. "What have you put in there this time? Baby powder? Toner? Anthrax?"

"Please," House scoffed. "You think I'd repeat myself? I haven't even scratched the surface of ways to torment you."

That was true, if not very reassuring. Still, Wilson held the envelope at arm's length while he slit open the flap. No powder.

He extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it cautiously, holding it with his fingertips. "A plane ticket to New Orleans?" At least that's what it looked like. Sometimes Wilson missed the comforting tangibility of the paper ticket in its plastic jacket, each sheet torn away to mark the stages of a journey. He looked for the confirmation number to make sure it was an e-ticket, and not just the receipt, and wondered if it were some elaborate joke. House couldn't be bothered to do his own paperwork, but he was a painstaking and expert forger. "Leaving on Friday morning?"

"Before you start to hyperventilate, it's cleared with Cuddy. You can turn your pager off until Monday night."

Wilson wasn't overly concerned with the time off. It was the time of departure. "That's an early flight for you. Am I going to have to drag you out of bed to make sure you get to the airport?" He didn't want to think about how early he'd have to be at House's apartment if they wanted to make it to Newark by seven. He wondered if House would object if he just slept on the couch on Thursday night.

But House was looking at him like he was an idiot, or worse, one of his fellows. "Why would you do that? I'm not going anywhere."

Wilson looked at the ticket again. It was for one return flight, but he'd assumed House had booked his own ticket separately. "I don't understand."

"Do you need me to act it out?" House asked. "Me, sleeping." He closed his eyes and pillowed his head on his hands. "You, flying." He stretched out his arms and swooped towards the door. "You can make your own way to the airport. My part of the process is over."

Wilson still didn't understand. "You bought me a ticket to go to New Orleans by myself?"

"Well, I'm not about to subsidize your next ethically dubious affair. You can pay for your own dirty weekends." House wasn't smiling, but he was watching Wilson with the kind of playful intensity usually reserved for cats batting at a favourite toy. It was preferable -- or at least less fatal, Wilson supposed -- to being a mouse. "I'm sure you can find someone to keep you company when you get there. Mardi Gras is over, but there are still willing women wandering the French Quarter."

Wilson didn't doubt it, but that wasn't the point. House was being deliberately and provocatively obtuse. "Why aren't you coming?"

"Because it's not my birthday."

Wilson's birthday had already come and gone, but it was close enough not to quibble. Though considering that in all the years they'd known each other House had never before given him a birthday present, close enough was a relative concept. "You bought me a plane ticket to New Orleans for my birthday?"

"I'm glad you haven't lost your grasp of the obvious in your advanced age. Don't expect a present for another decade," House said, which was an explanation of sorts. House didn't mark milestones in conventional or obvious ways, but he did mark them. He tapped his cane on the floor and turned to leave.

"Wait," Wilson protested. "I haven't thanked you. I know it might cause an allergic reaction, but I've got an epi pen handy." That actually ranked as more gratitude than House was usually willing to accept -- when he wanted thanks he demanded it -- but Wilson wasn't going to let him walk away without getting his question answered. "I think they let you into the city even if it's not your birthday," he said casually, when House turned back.

"Really? I'll have to have a word with my travel agent. Misleading me like that. You'd almost think I was persona non grata." But there was more bravado than mocking in his tone, and Wilson finally understood.

For as long as they'd known each other, House had poked and prodded and pushed, testing the limits of their friendship. It had always driven Wilson crazy, even as he'd jumped through House's hoops and tried to avoid each trap. But now House had reason to doubt Wilson's constancy, and all he could do was try to pass each test again. Words wouldn't help. Actions were what House understood. Like walking away. Or coming back.

"Odd," he said, opening up an Internet browser. "I can't imagine anyone not welcoming your presence." He glanced again at the e-ticket and typed in the flight number. "You know, just because Louisiana didn't want to pay to extradite me from Kentucky doesn't mean there's still not an outstanding warrant for my arrest in the state. Are you trying to get me thrown in jail?"

"You were on the phone to your lawyer before we'd left the police station," House retorted. "Like you should have done the first time."

"I wasn't dealing very well with the concept of lawyers at the time," Wilson reminded him. "And you told me you'd taken care of it." He pulled out his credit card to pay for the ticket, knowing House was watching, and understanding.

"Trusting me was your first mistake," House said lightly.

"I think having an affair and telling my wife was my first mistake," Wilson replied. He refused to believe the marriage itself had been a mistake, though his ex-wife probably wouldn't agree. "Trusting you was the only thing I did right in that whole mess." It wasn't entirely true, but he had told enough hurtful lies to last a lifetime. He concentrated on finishing the booking, double- and triple-checking the details before he hit Submit. House would call him obsessive-compulsive, but he had a friend who'd tried to book a ticket to Sydney, Australia, and ended up flying to Nova Scotia.

Wilson sent the itinerary to the printer at his assistant's desk. He'd gotten rid of his own printer after he'd failed to notice that House had filled the paper tray with printouts from the online _Daily Racing Form_. He'd found, however, that his patients appreciated a moment to themselves while he retrieved their lab orders -- though not as much as Mr. Campbell had appreciated the Derby tip -- so House had actually done him a favour in his usual backhanded way.

In the time that it took him to retrieve the itinerary, House had made himself comfortable in Wilson's office chair and was busily rearranging his desk. It had taken Wilson days to find all his pens the last time House took it upon himself to redecorate, but he didn't mind.

"Don't expect anything in June," he warned, as he handed House the ticket. It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Wilson was already conspiring with House's mother to plan a 50th birthday celebration that wouldn't completely horrify House. But New Orleans was always a good start. "And get out of my chair." He made shooing motions with his hands, but House was already pushing himself up and heading for the balcony door.

"My place, Thursday night," he said. "_Survivor_ and _Hell's Kitchen_. A double-header of backstabbing and incompetence. The perfect way to start a long weekend."


End file.
